Interlude in December
by sgam76
Summary: They say you can't go home again. But sometimes you really, really need to. (Takes place in December, a month after Sherlock's return)


Notes:

This takes place in December, roughly a month after Sherlock's return. It's clear that Sherlock's parents dote on him-they came up to London as soon as he returned, and planned to stay a while. So it only made sense that, his first Christmas home (only a little over a month later), they would want him with them, and that it would very likely be an emotional time.

I decided, all on my own, that the Holmes side of the family is not the only one with exotic names. And, using the "M" as Mummy's first initial (from her book cover in HLV) I gave her a name that seemed fitting. (I know that popular head-canon uses "Marie", but she just doesn't seem like a "Marie" to me).

NOTE: This appears, in a slightly-different form, as a part of my multi-chapter fic "Scheherezade", which should be published here in the next few days. Several folks had suggested that it would work very well as a stand-alone, though, and I thought it might serve as an introduction for some folks to that work as well.

 _Surrey, the Holmes residence_

 _December 2013_

John wasn't precisely sure how it happened. How he ended up, the day before Christmas, rumbling down to Surrey in Sherlock's mum's Range Rover.

Oh, sure, he understood the mechanics. In early December, Sherlock, John and Lestrade had a nearly-lethal meeting with an 18-stone serial killer that left Sherlock with a concussion, cracked cheekbone, two black eyes and some truly world-class bruises on the rest of his face. Greg Lestrade, as a joke, sent a picture of the bedraggled Sherlock to Mycroft, who then forwarded it to their mother.

After seeing the picture of Sherlock's injuries, Melisande ("call me Mellie, dear!") Holmes left three messages for her youngest to call her. Failing to get an answer, she called her eldest, who had wisely boarded a plane for Vienna and a conference on international disaster planning which would be followed by a trip to Russia over Christmas. Which was why, three days after the impromptu party, John answered his phone and found himself the target of an exceedingly polite, but impressively thorough interrogation.

Sherlock, the bastard, was off to Bristol looking at the killer's prior crime scenes, so John, stuck in London with clinic duty, was on his own. And Melisande was like Sherlock with social skills. It was terrifying. Within five minutes he found himself inviting Mellie and Siger to come into town for dinner with him, Mary and Sherlock. Within ten he realized that he had just agreed to spend part of Christmas week in Surrey.

Mary was invited as well, of course, but he knew she wouldn't come—she already had plans for a Girl's Trip with some friends. But John did get his own back on Sherlock by assuring Mellie that Sherlock would be glad to spend a week in Surrey, even if John had to come back earlier. And he truly enjoyed breaking that happy news to Sherlock on his return. ("John, she'll make me go caroling!" Sherlock moaned. John smirked. "Then you should have called her back, shouldn't you?")

So, the Tuesday before Christmas, Melisande and Siger rolled into London with their large, comfortable vehicle (Sherlock: "Really, Mummy. There are no vast wastelands to traverse in Surrey. Why do two elderly people need this egregiously large automobile?" Mellie: "Because I have two egregiously large children, and I like to occasionally go for a drive with one or both of them. Get in the car.")

They all trundled off for a delightful dinner (at which Mellie gave Sherlock the gimlet eye until he picked up his fork and actually ate. It was _great_. Mary told John afterward that she was dying to take a picture of Sherlock actually doing what he was told).

John had decided to spend the night at Baker Street since they would be leaving for Surrey relatively early. Mellie and Siger went to their hotel after dinner, but left Sherlock with subtle threats that actually got him out of bed and packed (after a fashion) by 9 am the next morning. John now understood why Mrs. Hudson threatened to call Sherlock's mum so often.

The ride back to Surrey was really pretty entertaining. Melisande and Siger kept up a lively conversation that pointedly included John (ignoring Sherlock's occasional grunts, emitted only under duress. The rest of the time he pretended to sleep, with all the grace of a spotty teen on a forced trip to his Nan's). Of course Siger did finish Mellie's sentences, but it didn't seem to bother either of them.

John wasn't sure what he expected as far as the Holmes' residence went. In the end, he was struck by how, well, homelike it was. Yes, it was big—it had always been clear that Sherlock came from money, after all, and old money at that. The house was historic, but had a lovely, lived-in look. This was a house that had been maintained well, and modernized enough to keep it comfortable for a family, but no attempt had been made at "stylish"—no sweeping open spaces, no vast windows or trendy finishes. It was warm, quirky and slightly untidy, in the best possible way.

The gardens were lovely, romantic and a little overgrown, with many nooks and crannies of old plantings that would have been ideal for children's' rambles. John could easily visualize Pirate Sherlock chasing Mycroft down the paths with a toy sword.

Sherlock unfolded himself from the back seat and trudged into the house in a sulk, though John was stunned to see him carrying both of their bags without protest. While John stood in the entryway chatting with Mellie about the history of the house ("Well, parts are supposedly 600 years old, but the Holmes family can only swear to 400 of them," Mellie said airily, as if owning the same house for 400 years was nothing special), Sherlock came to a rather tense stop and waited for his mother to finish before gesturing vaguely towards a staircase to the right of the doorway. "My room is up there," he said abruptly. "I'm assuming you're in Mycroft's old room." He then spun on his heel and started up the stairs without waiting to see if John was coming.

Melisande frowned slightly. John looked after Sherlock indecisively—he didn't want to be rude to Mellie, but there was an undercurrent to Sherlock's mood right now that was making him uneasy. Mellie sighed behind him and settled the matter. "Go ahead and get settled, John. Sherlock can show you where everything is, and we can meet back down here in an hour or so once I have lunch ready." She paused, as if hesitating to say something, then continued quietly. "He's a bit…off, I think. Maybe you can calm him down." Then she smiled and glided off towards the lounge and, presumably, the kitchen.

At the top of the stairs, John found himself in a dimly-lit corridor with Victorian wallpaper and old but shiny wood floors. He passed several closed doors before seeing two open ones, across the corridor from each other. He glanced into the first, and saw a charming brass bed with an antique quilt at the foot, but no Sherlock—apparently this was his, then. He walked across the corridor and saw Sherlock standing just inside the opposite doorway with his back pressed to the open door, both bags abandoned at his feet. His face was corpse-white, the last of the fading bruises glaringly apparent. His eyes were closed and his hands were clenching and unclenching at his side.

John moved forward cautiously, not sure what was going on but with alarm bells clanging in his head. "Sherlock?" he said softly. "Everything all right?" Sherlock didn't answer, but his breathing spiraled up audibly, hands now clutching at his chest. John suddenly realized what he was seeing.

" _Shit_. Sherlock. Listen to me. You're having a panic attack, right? I need you to breathe with me and count. Nothing else. I'll take care of everything else. Just breathe, OK? Feel my hand and try to push your chest against it." He slid Sherlock down to a sitting position as the man's knees abruptly went, sliding a hand behind his head to prevent a rap against the wood of the door as he knelt in front of Sherlock's sprawled legs.

Sherlock was now whooping and gasping for breath, one hand gripping painfully on John's shoulder while the other fluttered and clenched in the air. John pushed his left hand firmly against Sherlock's abdomen and continued to count breaths loudly, while his right lifted Sherlock's chin and forced him to look up. "Look at me and breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Listen to the rhythm and try to match it. In. Out."

It took perhaps five minutes before Sherlock's breathing came back into a normal pattern. By the end, he was leaning his head back against the door while John reflexively pushed his fringe out of his face. They sat in silence for another five minutes after that before John spoke again.

"Have these been happening often?" he said carefully.

Sherlock gave a shuddering sigh. "Perhaps once a week. Much less often than in the beginning."

John's mouth opened before he could edit himself. "And you never told me?" He could have kicked himself—he knew from personal experience that that kind of approach only made things worse.

Sherlock gave a mildly offended sniff. "I have been managing them successfully on my own, thank you." He moved his arms and legs in an abortive attempt to get up, only to be stopped by John's arms on his shoulder.

"Nope. Stay here for a bit." His fingers pushed into the hollow under Sherlock's jaw. "Your heartrate is too high and you're still sweating." Sherlock gave up and slumped back against the door, head back, while John tried to think of a non-intrusive way to ask uncomfortable questions. Sherlock solved that dilemma for him, though.

"Stop agonizing. It's exhausting to witness. Just ask. You will eventually anyway." His lips twisted in something that was almost a smile.

"Alright then," John said carefully. "Do you have any common triggers? Do you know what triggered you today?"

"Common triggers? Enclosed spaces or confinement. Blood, initially, but less so now. Restraints of any kind, including some clothing items. Occasionally certain loud male voices or unexpected touches." Sherlock paused, while John worked very hard at not reacting to that matter-of-fact list and the places it made his mind go.

'Today, I believe, was a combination of confinement in the rear seat of the car, coupled with the smell of wood polish in the entryway." He stopped talking abruptly as his breathing sped up a bit, and john returned his hand to Sherlock's abdomen in a silent reminder to breathe and count.

They were silent for a minute or so, while Sherlock got his breathing back under control. Then John made a mild protest. "You should have told me the back seat bothered you. You could have swapped with your dad—he wouldn't mind."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes," he said drily. "And I'm sure he or my mother wouldn't ask for an explanation, or come up with one on their own."

"But they're your _parents_ , Sherlock. They know you've been through a bad time. They wouldn't ever think less of you for needing a little help," John protested.

"I don't need their help," Sherlock snapped. Then he caught himself, and spoke again, softly, almost plaintively. "I _don't_."

John had his doubts, but knew this wasn't the time to voice them.

"Alright then. For right now, let's just get out of the floor, yeah?" John slid his hands under Sherlock's elbows and lifted, while Sherlock got those stork-like legs under him. They made it to a standing position, where Sherlock halted, swaying a bit but staying up.

John herded him gently towards the four-poster visible under the windows. Sherlock shook off his guiding hand but continued tottering towards the bed without protest. He reached it under his own power and dropped abruptly to sit on the edge, then collapsed slowly onto his side, pulling up his legs. He rolled silently over to face the wall, apparently thinking this would forestall conversation.

"Your mum will go spare if she sees those shoes up on the duvet," John said mildly, reaching over to slide them off. Sherlock allowed it, which in and of itself was an indicator of his current state. "I'll go ask her to set lunch back half an hour or so—that will give you more time to rest. I'll tell you're getting over one of your migraines."

Sherlock immediately rolled onto his back. "No!" And then a bit more calmly, "No. She… they don't…"

John sighed. "Christ. You haven't told them anything, have you?" The ensuing silence was as good an answer as he was likely to get. "Right. We are going to talk about this, when you're feeling better. For right now, I'm going to tell her you made yourself car-sick." He noted Sherlock's offended look but held out a hand to cut off protest. "Don't care if it's embarrassing. You need the extra time to rest, and that's the simplest explanation. Unless you want to volunteer something else?"

Sherlock rolled grumpily back to face the wall. "Tell her whatever you like. She will likely draw her own conclusions anyway, and come interrogate me herself."

"Good. She's better at it than I am," huffed John, and headed off to find the kitchen.

As it happened, Sherlock managed to elude interrogation after all. Just as Sherlock had predicted, John's offering of car-sickness drew an exasperated eye-roll from Mellie. "John, Sherlock has never had motion sickness in his life. I appreciate your willingness to perjure yourself for him, but you do him no favors. I've known since he came back that something is seriously amiss, and one way or the other he is going to tell me about it." She paused at John's involuntary flinch. "Is anything truly wrong at the moment, or is he just hiding?"

John sighed. "He's had a panic attack. He needs to rest up a bit—the adrenaline surge is exhausting." Mellie turned and started walking towards the stairway. "Just—seriously—go easy right now?"

He blinked at one of Sherlock's expressions on his mother's face. The "I'm surrounded by idiots" one, though thankfully a bit more polite than her son's version. "John, this is not the first time I've winkled secrets out of my son for his own good." Her face softened a bit then, and she gave a warm smile. "I'm so glad you're here."

She strode off and up the stairs, while John waited resignedly for the shouting to begin. Five minutes later, though, Melisande swept back into the kitchen with a frustrated huff. "He's asleep," she sighed. "Really asleep—he's good at faking, but not that good." John was afraid to ask what test she used.

In the end, Sherlock slept right through lunch. John went up to check on him after an hour and a half and found him curled in a tight ball and breathing deeply. All things considered, rest was more important than food at the moment. John, Mellie and Siger had a convivial meal, and afterward John and Siger settled themselves in the back parlour with a good book and the Times crossword, respectively. Mellie stayed in the kitchen, saying she had some baking to do before dinner.

John wasn't sure what woke him—some small noise or movement, perhaps. But he became aware that he was still sitting in the comfortable chair in the parlour, his book forgotten in his lap. Obviously the big lunch and cozy setting had led him to nod off. He suddenly noticed Siger standing just inside the doorway, smiled and started to apologize when Siger quickly put his finger to his lips and nodded his head towards the closed glass door.

Just visible in the corner of the kitchen, Sherlock and his mother stood, engaged in intense (but inaudible) conversation. Melisande's hand was on Sherlock's forearm, while Sherlock's other hand threaded roughly through his curls in agitation. John couldn't see Sherlock's face, only Mellie's. She shook her head and moved her hand up to Sherlock's cheek, and a shudder ran visibly across his shoulders. Suddenly he reached out and clutched his mother, as her arms moved to fold around his back, and his forehead sank to meet hers. They stayed that way for a minute, two minutes. John noticed that Mellie was rocking slightly, to and fro, one hand moved to cup Sherlock's head and the other rubbing his back—the universal language of a parent with a distressed child.

John was afraid to move, to make any sound at all that would disrupt that tender, necessary moment. Siger stayed frozen in place by the door. In the kitchen, Sherlock unfolded himself slowly from his mother and brushed the heels of his hands roughly across his eyes. Mellie laced her arm around his waist and the two moved off together towards the front of the house.

When they were clearly out of earshot, Siger gave a gusty sigh and folded himself back down on the chair across from John. "Lock has always found it terribly hard to ask for comfort," he said quietly. "That doesn't mean he doesn't need it."

Dinner was a little late, but no one minded. Sherlock helped his mum chop vegetables with only minimal grumbling. His eyes were a bit puffy, but he seemed calmer than when they'd arrived. When dinner was ready he sat quietly at the table, responding when spoken to even if he didn't initiate much conversation. He didn't eat much, but under the circumstances no one expected that he would. After dinner Siger asked Sherlock to come look at something he was building in his workshop. Though John was of course invited, he declined, figuring that Siger deserved some time alone with his son. He and Mellie had a friendly cup of coffee over an episode of Top Gear, and then John wandered off to bed alone.

John woke early the next morning to the smell of bacon and the sound of music filtering up from downstairs. He peeked into Sherlock's room as soon as he finished up in the loo, but the room was empty, the bed already neatly made up (interesting, that—apparently being in his childhood room made him tidier than he was at Baker Street).

As he wandered downstairs, he realized the music was coming from the back of the house, from a room he hadn't seen yet. He headed instinctively in that direction, and found himself in what was clearly a music room—not that he'd ever lived in, or seen, another house with a music room, but he knew one when he saw it. A grand piano held pride of place in one corner, and the Holmeses, elder and younger, were grouped around it. Mellie sat at the piano in accomplished style, while Sherlock and Siger stood behind her. And they were singing—something sweet, complex, Baroque-sounding. John stopped, entranced and delighted. Siger sang in a clear, precise tenor, and Sherlock—oh, Sherlock—had a beautiful, rich baritone that John realized he had never heard before. Not once, in all their time together, had he heard Sherlock sing even a snippet of music, and based on what was before him, that was simply a crime.

John stood still and listened. It was glorious. Just glorious. The kind of thing you heard in candlelight services from some great cathedral on telly.

Suddenly an electronic chime chirped from the vicinity of the piano, and Mellie stopped playing and hopped up. "That's the quiche, then. Come have breakfast, everyone." She trotted off towards the kitchen, grabbing Sherlock's arm as she went and hauling him along. Siger chuckled and walked along with John at a more measured pace. He raised his eyebrows and said "You've never heard him, then?"

John shook his head ruefully. "I never even knew he could carry a tune. That's…it's a shame. Why would he hide it?" And even as he said it, he realized that was true. Sherlock had intentionally kept his voice to himself—over the course of years, everyone would eventually sing, however briefly, at some point. But not Sherlock.

Siger slowed a bit, delaying their return to the kitchen. "Well…did he never tell you he was asked to audition for Westminster Abbey's Cathedral Choir when he was 16? Wait, no—of course not. You didn't even know he sang."

John nodded. "I'm not surprised, though. That voice—it's exceptional. But what happened? Did they turn him down?" And John could see Sherlock, at 16, being so crushed and angry that he refused to sing from then on.

Siger sighed. "Sherlock was in his first year at uni, and had made a…friend, if you use the term broadly. Someone much older and more sophisticated than he, not that virtually everyone there wasn't. I regret so much now that we allowed him to go at that age, no matter how much he begged." He paused, sighed, then shook his head roughly and continued. "Anyway, this particular 'friend' noticed how very anxious Sherlock was about the audition, and convinced him that he had the perfect remedy."

And John could see just where this was going. "Oh, no…" he breathed. Siger nodded, "Yes, just what you're thinking. He insisted on going to the audition alone. We were to meet him there afterward, since we couldn't be inside. And we arrived just in time to hear him shouting, screaming really, at the proctors. In any event, they realized when he arrived that he was high, and never even allowed him to sing for them. As far as I know, he's never sung where anyone but us could hear him since. His mother makes him go caroling with us, and he never opens his mouth."

John blinked. "That's just… Siger, I'm so sorry." Siger shrugged his shoulders philosophically. "I've long since made my peace with it. Sherlock has many other talents, and thankfully he finally hit on something that made him happy. That's all a parent can hope for, really." He paused thoughtfully. "He did let you hear him this morning, though. Maybe you can help convince him to let others hear him as well."

John nodded. "I'll do my best." And he meant it.

After a huge breakfast of quiche, bacon, fresh fruit and tiny little sweet pastries, they all tottered into the sitting room and collapsed into chairs. Mellie insisted no one help with clean-up—she had help coming in a little later in the day who would also prepare their Christmas dinner. "It's part of my Christmas present from Siger every year," she said with a fond smile to her husband. "He knows I don't have the patience to cook more than once or twice in a row without getting testy about it."

They then turned their attention to the relatively modest pile of presents under the tree. John was glad he'd at least had enough warning to come up with something for everyone, including Sherlock. Mellie indicated that she and Siger had already exchanged their gifts earlier.

John's gifts to Mellie and Siger went over very well. He'd seen a candid shot of Sherlock, taken by a crime scene photographer, that he particularly liked. He contacted the photographer for a copy, had it cropped, blown up and professionally mounted. Mellie loved it. "I haven't any new photos of him since university!" she exclaimed. Sherlock's lip curled slightly, but he held his peace. The antique carved pipe John found in a boot sale went to Siger, who was clearly pleased. He didn't smoke them, but he loved to collect unusual pipes. This one was a carved beehive, complete with tiny brass bees. Even Sherlock made appreciative noises at that gift- he did love his bees.

Mellie and Siger had gone together to give John a gift certificate for a gym membership, something Sherlock had apparently told them he had been wanting, but refusing to buy for himself. Sherlock then looked around expectantly for his own gift, but his mother forestalled that. "Let's do your gift last, dear. It's something I need to explain once we get there." Sherlock frowned, and his mother cut in. "And don't try to deduce it. We worked hard on this, so don't spoil things." He sighed and subsided.

John, with a great deal of hesitancy, then held out his gift for Sherlock. It was an antique chemistry set he'd found in a little shop near Covent Garden. Still in its original leather sectioned bag, it held dozens of tiny sample bottles, some still with unrecognizable contents. Best of all, it held what appeared to be a journal written by the Victorian-era owner, which detailed a number of experiments and observations.

He had a bad moment when Sherlock held the bag in his lap without comment. But then he suddenly turned to John and gave that singularly sweet smile that crept out every now and again. "Thank you, John. This is truly very interesting."

John's shoulders relaxed. "Well, I thought it would be something to play with, um, _investigate_ when you've got nothing on. Identify what's in the bottles, maybe try the experiments. The dealer said the owner was quite well-known for being an eccentric in his day."

"How very apt," Sherlock drawled. But then he started. "Oh—I just remembered." He darted over under the tree and pulled out a small box. "I wasn't sure... I asked…Mycroft helped," he stammered, while John slowly opened the box and caught his breath.

Inside was a man's silver signet-style ring. Not ostentatious or even especially valuable, but attractive, it included military insignias in enamelwork—insignias that John recognized. He turned it over and over in his hands, fighting the lump in his throat. He looked up at Sherlock and caught the anxious expression he was trying to hide. "I knew you had a number of decorations, but you never displayed them," Sherlock hurriedly said. "And I had seen a similar ring on one of Mycroft's military friends some time ago. It's permissible—I checked, well, Mycroft checked, to make sure it met all military regulations for display."

John had to clear his throat before he responded, aware of Sherlock's parents smiling from across the room. "Thank you, Sherlock. It's a very special gift indeed." And it made his day to see Sherlock blush and duck his head a bit before slapping his more-typical blank face back on.

At that point, Mellie, smiling broadly, jumped up and rummaged under the tree again, coming up with a large, heavy rectangular box. She walked over and placed it carefully in Sherlock's lap, with the air of someone conveying something quite precious. Sherlock looked at the box, then looked up at her, perplexed. "Go ahead then," she prodded, while Siger looked on expectantly.

Sherlock peeled the wrapping off the box and pulled off the lid, then seemed to come to a complete halt—John wasn't sure he was even breathing. He reached in and pulled out the contents—a very old, very large book, covered in battered leather with gilt-edged pages and ancient brass clasps on the side. He smoothed his hands reverently over the binding, then looked to his mother, a bewildered expression on his face. "Grandmere's bee compendium," he breathed. "How…?", he started, and could get no further.

Mellie plopped herself down on the sofa arm, running her palm fondly across Sherlock's cheek. "I knew how much you always wanted it. She would have left it to you, dear, you know that. But when she was so ill at the end, you were, you weren't…" Sherlock flinched, and she put her hand firmly under his chin and forced his face back up. "She wasn't angry with you, sweetheart. She was just concerned that your illness would lead you to bad choices, and the book was both very valuable and very dear to her."

"More dear than I was, apparently," Sherlock choked out, his eyes squeezed shut and head back down.

Mellie leaned forward and snaked her arm around his shoulders. "No. Never that. She just didn't want to leave you with one more thing to reproach yourself for, once you recovered. And she was very sure you would recover, which is why this book is in your hands now."

Sherlock cleared his throat again and lifted his head back up inquiringly, eyes just a bit too bright.

"You know she left the book to Rudy." Sherlock nodded. "What you don't know is that she also left him with a letter," she continued. "And that letter said that, when your family was convinced you were well enough, the book was to come to you. So earlier this month, your brother, without telling us, made a trip to France and gave Rudy his personal assurance that you were ready now to take on this charge." Mellie and Siger both beamed at Sherlock.

Sherlock's reaction, though, was not what John expected. He abruptly stood, placed the book gently on the sofa, and strode quickly out of the room. John shot out of his chair and started to follow, but Mellie stopped him, catching him by the arm. "No, dear. He'll be fine—this is a good thing. But he finds this level of emotion very unsettling, so he needs to deal with it on his own first. He'll be back."

And he was. Half an hour later, while John, Mellie and Siger were watching a Christmas concert on telly, Sherlock came ambling back into the room as if nothing had happened. His eyes were once again red and a bit puffed, but he now wore his normal self-assured look. He said nothing at all—just sat down on the sofa next to the box, then carefully picked up the book and set it on his lap before opening the clasps and flipping, slowly and with exquisite care, through the pages.

John got up and went to sit next to him on the sofa. After a bit, Sherlock noticed he was there and began speaking softly. "It's an incunabulum. That's a book printed prior to 1500. The Vernets were always early adopters of new technology, apparently." Siger, on his way out to the kitchen with Mellie, gave a genteel snort from across the room, but Sherlock ignored him. "It was printed in Geneva in 1497 for one of my many-times great-grandfathers. He was very interested in improving the yield and quality of the honey from his hives. He assembled bits of bee-keeping lore from all over the known world, and incorporated it in the text, which he wrote himself." He opened the book carefully to one particular page, containing an elaborate diagram of the inner workings of a beehive, as well as astoundingly detailed anatomical dissections of bees. "This is a woodcut of an original drawing made by a friend of my grandfather's in Milan. It is the only version known to exist." He looked up at John with an oddly shy expression. "His friend's name was Leonardo Da Vinci."

John leaned over so he could see the elaborate scrolling print, complete with woodcut illustrations. "That's … amazing, really. Not just that something so old could survive in this condition, but that it stayed in the same family."

Sherlock hummed. "It's been handed down in each generation to the child most interested in bees." He stopped, looking distressed momentarily, then shook himself mentally and continued. "That was me, of course. Grandmere would spend ages with both me and the book on her lap. It is one of my earliest memories."

John couldn't help but ask. "Then why…?"

Sherlock's face did something complicated and sad. "When my grandmother was dying, I was probably at my worst with drugs—living on the streets part of the time, actually. I entered rehab for the second time about a month later. They didn't tell me she had died until I had completed it." John wanted very badly to hug him, but restrained himself—wasn't sure it would be welcomed. And after a pause Sherlock continued. "She was right. She couldn't leave something so valuable to me, at least not then."

"So how valuable is it?" John asked carefully.

"They appraised it as part of Grandmere's estate at something above ₤200,000," Sherlock said absently, rubbing the binding again. "It's probably increased in the intervening years."

John managed not to choke, but it was a near thing. "Good God."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "I would like to believe I would never have sold it," he said, very softly. "But on reflection, I can't be sure."

The next morning John was up early, earlier than Sherlock, in fact. He glanced over on leaving the loo and saw that Sherlock's door was still firmly closed. He, Mellie and Siger had finally wandered off to bed the night before at midnight, leaving Sherlock ensconced on the sofa, still caressing his book. No telling what time he finally came up to bed,

Christmas dinner had been lovely. Mellie's "crew" had put together an elegant spread that everyone enjoyed (even Sherlock, who crowed softly in delight at the sweets tray), and then cleared everything up in short order.

Now, though, John had that typical Boxing Day feeling that he always mentally compared to a mild hangover. Too much food, a little too much wine, and in this case perhaps a little too much feeling. Even though no great scenes had played out, Christmas had clearly been a very emotional day for the Holmeses, and for John by proxy as well. He was a little sad to be leaving, actually. He had enjoyed this visit, and he really hadn't expected to. The Holmes family, as a whole, were just like Sherlock—always surprising, and occasionally in a good way.

He had promised to go to Harry's for dinner this evening, and was regretting it (particularly so when Sherlock pointed out all the reasons why Harry would make it a miserable evening). It was clear that Sherlock didn't want him to leave, and Sherlock's parents had pressed him gently to stay as well. But the more he thought about it, the more he observed Sherlock over these two days, the surer he was that this visit was something Sherlock had needed very much, and needed to continue as long as he would tolerate it. And John had a feeling that his presence might reduce some of the benefits Sherlock was reaping out of this enforced stay.

Sherlock's parents _adored_ him. He was ashamed to admit he hadn't expected that. Somehow, he had always thought that at least part of Sherlock's icy reserve had come from a troubled, abused childhood. But he now had to rearrange his entire concept of Sherlock's history.

In the end, after delaying as long as he possibly could, he and Siger climbed into the car for the trip to the train station, 10 minutes away. His last view, looking out the rear window, was of Sherlock and his mum, Sherlock's arm casually around her shoulder while she waved (such things, of course, being beneath Sherlock himself). But he was pleased, so pleased, to see the relaxed near-smile on Sherlock's face.


End file.
